


L'Ombre la Plus Sombre de Guerre (The Darkest Shadow of War)

by manaketeprince, thedoctorisaconsultinghunter (bimgnusbane)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 60s AU, AU, F/M, M/M, Multi, Vietnam AU, this is gonna get real sad real fast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manaketeprince/pseuds/manaketeprince, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bimgnusbane/pseuds/thedoctorisaconsultinghunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1970 and the height of the Vietnam War. For Les Amis de l'ABC, this war is something they're striving to fight against. It's just a bit harder when half of their team is drafted overseas and one of them is not coming back. Jehan is broken. Enjolras is angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camisado

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty. Now for some historical context brought to you by yours truly:  
> The Vietnam War was the most injustified war in American history. It was also the first time the US employed the draft system and truly used it since the Civil War (The draft system was put in place for both World Wars, but with the volunteers we had no need). The war lasted for 19 years, 5 months, 4 weeks, and 1 day.  
> Of the 3,403,000 men deployed to Southeast Asia, 2,215,000 were drafted into the war and in total 58,220 never made it home and 303,644 returned seriously injured.  
> No one who wasn't there could truly describe the horror these men went through but Cara and I are trying our best to be as historicaly accurate as possible.  
> We'd like to dedicate this fic to the 58,220 men that never saw home again.  
> Other notes:  
> It should be assumed that a) Grantaire drank but was not a drunk before the war. b) Grantaire and Enjolras were in a relationship before this happened. c) So were Jehan and Courf, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, Combeferre and Eponine, and Marius and Cosette. Also at some point this fic will have an 8tracks that will update with the song of the chapter name.

_"The I.V. and your hospital bed_  
 _This was no accident_  
 _This was a therapeutic chain of events_  
  
 _This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor_  
 _This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital_  
 _It's not so pleasant_  
 _And it's not so conventional_  
 _It sure as hell ain't normal_  
 _But we deal, we deal"_

_\- Camisado, Panic! At the Disco_

* * *

 

“Two minutes.”

Grantaire bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The gun rested heavily against his shoulder; he could still feel the now-familiar weight of the trigger on his finger and it made him sick.

Courfeyrac, next to him, threw his cigarette to the ground and put it out with the heel of his standard-issue boot: everything the same here, just faceless pawns in a game they were forced to play, another brick in the gates of hell. “Good luck,” he said; he smiled at him, barely visible in the soft glow of the stars. It wasn’t the same as it used to be, the warmth was all gone now and he was just tired, tired, tired of everything. The bags under his eyes matched every other man’s - not much older than boys, any of them - and the grins didn’t reach his eyes anymore. The little dimples had faded under layers of dirt and grime and pain to be replaced by clenched jaws and furrowed brows.

“No such thing as luck,” Grantaire replied softly, but it did nothing to disguise the unexpected sharp bitterness that had developed over the past few months.

“Whatever you believe in, then,” Courfeyrac sighed, he was too tired and too used to Grantaire’s moods to ever argue anymore. Not like Enjolras with his inexhaustible passion and energy...

As soon as the thought came, Grantaire pushed it away. It did him no good to reminisce, not now when he was about to damn his eternal soul a thousand times over. He looked to his side; Courfeyrac’s mind was far away, back in lazy summer afternoons on the pier with another boy, another day, another life.

If they went home now, Grantaire wasn’t sure anyone would even recognize them. They were changed. They were torn apart and put back together again in the crudest of ways: no longer human, just animals with nothing left but instinct and power and a drive to kill to survive. Love for one’s country was a distant thought out here; you killed to save yourself and your friends, not to defend honour, democracy and the American way.

Courfeyrac tugged his dirt-stained sleeve: they were moving. Wordlessly, Grantaire shouldered his rifle and pushed forward with the rest of his squadron, his mind far away from the hell they were living. His fingers trembled as he crouched; alcohol was sparse by the front, and lately Grantaire had been taking advantage of each man’s rations.

Boots slogged through mud, grass, and Grantaire’s unfocused eyes could see blond angels waiting behind every tree, waiting to take him away once and for all. It wasn’t often that he wanted to go with them. Courfeyrac, once so warm, was just as distant as they walked beside each other. The moon was new, he could barely make out his friend’s profile now that they were away from the light of the camp, and not for the first time, Grantaire took what little refuge he could from the fact that no other man could see his eyes. He had long since started to avoid mirrors, rivers, anywhere he could see his reflection; he hated how his eyes were sunken and dull and showed all the feeling he tried so hard to keep reigned in. Nothing was sacred anymore.

He went through the motions mechanically; lift the rifle to his shoulder, aim, pull the trigger, don’t think don’t think about the bodies you step over or they’ll haunt your nightmares for the rest of your short wretched life and he was advancing. Courfeyrac’s dark hair and broad shoulders were lost in the chaos of the fight and Grantaire was alone, surrounded only by the press of the monsters around him raging against the ones straining at his skin from within. Another shot, another kill and he doesn’t stop to watch the body fall this time, just runs on and watches for the uniforms of his brothers as he screams in his head for this nightmare to end.

A stumble, and Courfeyrac’s shoulder was under his outstretched hand. The other boy (for they really were boys, playing at being men) knelt before two others, spread-eagled on the ground. He could see by their uniform that they were two of their own, and Grantaire could do nothing but nod solemnly in a brief symbol of respect. Courfeyrac breathed heavily, his heart was pounding erratically and he couldn’t quite stifle the tears.

“Up,” Grantaire said gruffly, hoisting his friend to his feet. There was no use for a speech when a simple imperative would do; don’t waste a single breath because it could be your last, it was a lesson you learned fast or not at all. With a grunt, Grantaire managed to get the other onto his back and set off back into the dark of the night, following the retreating backs of his fellows back towards what he hoped was their camp. Courfeyrac’s shorn hair, already growing back quickly and curling in wisps from under his hat, was soft against Grantaire’s back as he slowly fell behind the rest and looked for the footprints and listened in vain for any sign that he was walking in the right direction.

Hours, days, perhaps only minutes later and Grantaire fell in a desperate mess on the ground before the medical tents. “Joly!” he cried, barely above a whisper. The young medic rushed out of the tent with the other medics and surgeons, pulling him up and supporting Courfeyrac as he fell backwards off of Grantaire’s shoulders. “I had to carry him back,” he coughed, “he was just kneeling and crying and he wouldn’t move so I picked him up and I almost got lost and-”

He was cut off by Joly’s warm, soothing hand rubbing circles into his upper back. “Hush, Taire, you need to lie down,” the doctor murmured in his ear, and for a moment Grantaire was sixteen and throwing up into Enjolras’ toilet at a party with no one but Joly to comfort him in his misery. “We thought you’d gotten lost, or-” Wisely, Joly doesn’t finish his sentence.

Two other men were kneeling over Courfeyrac’s limp body; for the first time Grantaire noticed the long, dark rip in his uniform across the stomach and the rusted stain covering nearly his entire torso. For the first time, he could see the dark red on his hands though he himself was unscathed.

For the first time he noticed how the rise and fall of his friend’s, his brother’s chest had stilled and his eyes no longer fluttered and struggled to see. For the first time his hands felt empty without the weight of a bottle of beer or liquor or anything to numb the pain.

For the first time, his angel’s wings were black.

* * *

The night it happened is one Enjolras will never forget. He and Grantaire were watching the broadcast in their room everyone else had gathered in the living room. He found later that Marius and cut of the circulation to Cosette's hand, Combeferre had gripped a shaking Eponine tight, Bahorel and Feuilly watching in silence, Joly looked to Musichetta determinedly and said he'd go over as a medic to watch him, and Courfeyrac had gone silent and burst out of the loft (later Enjolras would find that he had gone to Jehan's house and stayed there all night).

Grantaire was shell shocked, the full force of what was up on the screen not hitting him until Enjolras started sobbing.

"There are boys dying over there, not making it home, for no good reason and now you're joining them. R...I...."

"I know....I know...." Grantaire held him tightly and sobbed with him. They stayed like that, curled in each others arms until morning came and reality hit. They were drafted.

This war had been one they were fighting against since it had begun. It was unjust and stood nowhere near the patriotism America had once stood for.

As the days wore on, closer and closer to the day they would leave - possibly forever, each group pre-mourned in their own way. Enjolras and Grantaire had taken the route of spending every last waking moment together. They'd been with each other since they were 16 and now stood, at 20, side by side.

Enjolras recalls their last night together as he stands white knuckled by the first seat of the bleachers nearest to the exit. They'd graduated two years ago, but he - like everyone else - returned before the Star Spangled Banner at every game to hear the list of the dead or more to not hear, no one wanted to hear the list. The announcer started the list and Enjolras recalls fire blue eyes sending him reassurance on the eve of battle, curled up, facing each other, hands clasped, and sweet I love you's whispered into a black and foreboding night. He's quickly snapped out of his remembrance by a name, a recognizable one, being called over the loudspeaker. Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was dead. Enjolras blinked, his heart dropping as a thousand things ran through his mind. Had R been there? Was he really? Oh god, Courf, he was so young, so beautiful, so full of life, and hope, and, according to the last couple of weeks before they left, love.

That’s when Enjolras noticed a young boy running down the bleachers with what looked like a tear-streaked face. He immediately turned to follow him.

* * *

Jean Prouvaire couldn’t take it anymore.

The letters had stopped coming, but Courfeyrac had told him he might not be able to write for a while, that the war was getting rougher, but never... never this.

He couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over as he got up, shouldering his way through the crowd of people that never paid him any attention anyway and running around to the little hole in the fence that led to under the bleachers. Maybe, he thought, maybe if he curled up into a tight enough ball and hid in the darkest corner, he would just fade away.

He was trying to do just that when footsteps drew his mind away from the void. He lifted his head, still sniffling and shaking with sobs, to see a blonde man standing over him. He was struck by those steely blue eyes, so full of emotion and passion when how could there be anything left but _anguish?_

Slowly, Jehan’s chest settled into a steady rhythm again, and he looked up at the stranger again through watery eyes. His mouth moved, but he just couldn’t make a sound; there was a monster in his throat, clawing at his heart, because his beloved, his dear Courfeyrac was really never coming back.

He heard the stories, but he never expected it to happen to him.

The stranger knelt in front of him; Jehan hurriedly pushed his shaggy, tear-stained copper bangs out of his eyes and tried to settle his racing heart.

“He was your boyfriend wasn’t he? The kid from here?” Enjolras placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Mine’s out there too.” He said slowly. Jehan nodded.

“Courfeyrac,” he said quietly. “You... you knew him?”

Enjolras’ expression saddened, “Yes. He was put in the same squadron as......” He trailed, “We were friends.”

“I think I’ve seen you before,” Jehan said slowly, his voice hoarse with tears. “I was a freshman when h-he...” He stopped, took a deep breath, and spoke again. “When he was a senior. You were there, weren’t you?”

“Courfeyrac was one of the youngest in our group. He spoke of you often in the weeks before.” Enjolras looked down, “We were all fighting against the war. All of us. It is unjust and wrong, but.....they were drafted....Almost half of our group is over there fighting and we’ve got a medic as well. R said....in his most recent letter, R, my boyfriend, said that Courf talked about you when it was just them and he didn’t have to hide. I’m Enjolras, by the way.” He said as though it were an afterthought.

"He is - was - all I had," Jehan said, barely audibly. "And I'm Jehan. I suppose... I suppose you knew that." He clutched at his knees, pulling them closer to his chest as if it would hold his breaking heart together.

Enjolras sunk to the concrete beside him and wrapped his arms around Jehan, “I know the feeling.” He said softly, “R is.....my world. He’s what keeps me fighting. I don’t know what I would do if I were put in your position.”

"Neither do I," the younger boy said quietly, leaning into the older man's warm touch. It was the first affectionate touch he had felt since... _no, he couldn't think of that._

“Come to DC with us. Groups of protesters from around the nation are all meeting there on the National Mall to let the government know what we think of this so called fight for freedom. The fight that’s claimed those we love and one forever.” His voice filled with passion that seemed distant of what was there, but right for the situation. Enjolras spoke with fire that seemed off in a way, as though the muse that it was caused by were missing and was replaced by deep anger.

Jehan almost felt bad about how quickly he nodded in agreement: almost. His mother was kind, school wasn't bad, but all of a sudden he had found someone he didn't have to lie around for the first time since - don’t think about it. "I'll come," he said slowly. "I want... I want this to end." Suddenly the anguish was replaced by a fire; it wasn't the kind of passion Enjolras could conjure, but it was a little spark in his darkened eyes. "I want it to stop."

Enjolras’ eyes hardened at the boy’s agreement, “As do we. We want them home.” He breathed out shakily, “Our friend, Marius, was injured. We intend on leaving the day after he returns. Do you have somewhere to stay in the time being?” Enjolras knew that Jehan probably had parents and a house, but in these situations it was better to have someone who understood. Enjolras had Eponine, Cosette, Musichetta, but even they couldn’t understand the different feeling it was to have someone you couldn’t even say you loved in open company over there.

Jehan blinked. "I have you," he said slowly. "Mom certainly won't let me stay after I drop out. Is that... are you okay with it?" He bit his lip nervously; he was impulsive, he knew, but the last thing he could stand was to drive the last person he had out if his life because of it. Dimly, he could feel himself shaking in the man's arms, from the cold November night, the anxiety of leaving, and - _don’t you dare think about it. Don't cry in front of him again._

If anyone else could have seen them, he would have been beaten raw by now.

“It’s just me and the girls at Musain now,” Enjolras said slowly. He still hadn’t gotten used to the empty feeling in the normally cramped loft above the cafe; plus, he could really use another guy there. “Chetta will take you in with open arms. I’m sure of it.”

* * *

_Dearest Apollo,_

_Courfeyrac is dead. I carried him. I tried to save him, but it was too late. The world has lost another light I suppose. This fucking war is going to dim us all. Listen: Courf spoke of a boy. Someone he was in love with before we got shipped off to Hell. Find him and give him a home. Take him to DC if you have to. Just keep him safe for Courf. He said the boy didn’t have much else and that he’ll need someone if this were to happen._

_Tell Cosette that Joly said Marius will be recovered enough to go home in a few days._

_And as always Apollo, remember to stay strong for me. I love you, always have, always will. But you must stay strong so that you may pull me out of Hell. See you when we reach Earth._

_Love you._

_R_

* * *

A few days later, Marius did return with a wound to his right side and another letter from each of the boys. He, however, had some grave news to tell them after the joy of his return subsided.

“A day before I left the hospital, Joly came to me,” Marius began, voice hoarse and trembling. “He said that they had reported the squadron MIA. No one’s seen or heard from them since Courfeyrac died.”

And Enjolras' world crumbled around him.


	2. Babel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan joins the ranks. The boys have been MIA for a week. Enjolras descends into anger.
> 
> “Press my nose up, to the glass around your heart  
> I should've known I was weaker from the start,  
> You'll build your walls and I will play my bloody part  
> To tear, tear them down,  
> Well I'm gonna tear, tear them down”  
> \- Babel, Mumford and Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Sorry it's been so long, but things got in the way. Before we get to the historical context however, Cara and I have some news: WE ARE OFFICIALLY A COUPLE! YEP! IT HAPPENED FOLKS!  
> And now that that happiness is out of the way, the historical context: This Chapter: Friendly Fire. We don't want to give too much up, but this was more frequent in Veitnam than one would think.

MONTHS IN THE PAST

_Jean Prouvaire couldn’t take it anymore._

_Between rude customers, dropping plates, and slicing his finger open with a knife, his job at the cafe had gone steadily downhill over the past four hours. Half an hour, he sighed internally, glancing at the clock as he filled another mug with coffee._

_Forlornly, he waited by the cash register at the empty counter and pulled out his little notebook. It was ragged and dog-eared, filled with poems he’d written and general observations of his little suburban world. He could see the town center bus stop from his perch; for the past few weeks it had seen nearly thirty men come and go in their army greens, spotless and unbearably hot in the late May sun, packs slung across one shoulder and grim, heavyset faces. Jehan was, in a way, grateful that his father had died when he was so young: at least it meant he wouldn’t have to say goodbye to him again. His mother, an Army wife since the second World War had hit America, spent all her time in front of their little television, watching each piece of news that flashed with an anxious eye._

_“Jean, darling, just be grateful you’re only fifteen,” she would say at night, hugging his head to her chest. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”_

_Jehan huffed, blowing a stray piece of his shaggy, strawberry-blonde hair out of his face. So far, he had avoided a summer haircut, but he knew it wasn’t long before all his winter’s work was shaved off like “every other boy” for the warmer months. Thoughtfully, he sucked on his cut thumb and doodled little vines in the margins as he waited, waited, waited for what?_

_A young man outside the window caught his eye. Dark curly hair, hand shoved deep into worn pockets of old jeans; those startling blue eyes caught his own as the boy looked up. He can’t be much older than me, thought Jehan, unable to tear his eyes away as the stranger blinked and started towards the cafe’s door._

_“Anything for a nervous guy?” the stranger joked easily, but his hands shook as he drew five dollars from his pocket._

_Jehan smiled and felt his face flush a bit. “Green tea, then,” he answered, already pouring him a cup. “This one’s on the house.” Self-consciously, he nearly bit his lip clear through as he turned away to grab the pitcher of milk and the sugar._

_“Thanks, sunshine,” the young man said with a wry smile. His hand wrapped around Jehan’s as he reached for the milk pitcher; the student’s eyes grew wide as he looked between their overlapping fingers and the boy’s raised eyebrows and kind eyes._

_If he wasn’t bright red already, Jehan certainly was now. “I’m Jean Prouvaire,” he said, almost afraid to make eye contact. “Friends- you can call me Jehan.”_

_“I’m Courfeyrac,” the stranger offered with a wider grin. “Sorry, I’ve been a bit on edge with all this talk of a draft.”_

_“I think I’ve seen you,” Jehan said slowly. “Didn’t you graduate from Lamarque High School last year? I was a freshman.”_

_Courfeyrac nodded. “Just old enough,” he agreed. He looked around; the cafe was empty for now, save them. “Look, I- I don’t really know how to say this without it being incredibly embarrassing, and possibly a bit offensive, but would you do me the honor of keeping me company for a couple of hours?”_

_The playful smile was back: Jehan couldn’t help but return it._

_“I get off at one,” he offered slowly, biting his lip nervously. “If you want, I know a place we could go...”_

_Courfeyrac’s childish grin was unmistakable_.

* * *

Grantaire leaned up against a tree, they’d been gone a week, his rations had run dry. It was just friendly fire. Friendly goddamn fire all because they found out Courfeyrac was gay. So they killed him with their own bullets in the middle of a firefight and they ran, him and the others. Well minus Joly, he would help Marius get across and report the boys missing. Bahorel had gone batshit insane on the guy who had actually pulled the trigger on Courf, Feuilly had led the charge on the others, and Grantaire had drank until he couldn’t see. Which is why right now, he’s shaking against the rough tree because it’s been three days since they ran out of alcohol and he needs some horribly. It’s something Courf had noticed, but no one else. The more he thought of his angel back at home, the more he drank. He drew back when they had paper, endless streams of his angel that turned darker and darker till it wasn’t his angel anymore: it was something else entirely.

The others, he thinks, don’t understand as much. Courfeyrac did. Because the only other person that has to hide has his partner over here with him and it’s not fair, Grantaire thinks. Because Ferre and Marius could talk openly about Eponine and Cosette and Joly and Bossuet just mention Chetta in their own ways. Because they’re allowed to miss their love without being shot for it.

So they go off the map for a few days. Get rid of the rest of the guys. Deep down they all know what this is doing to the others back at home. They need it though. They can claim they were attacked, captured, and that they escaped and everyone will just stand by and not say a thing. So they go off the map for a few days.

* * *

“Where the devil have you been?”

Jehan froze, shoes in hand as he crept up the stairs. “Mom, I...” he tried to explain, voice still hoarse and cracking.

“Jean Michel Prouvaire the Second, it is two-thirteen in the morning. You know full well your curfew is midnight,” she snapped, standing up from where she had been wringing her hands in the big armchair by the television. Her eyes were red and puffy; her hair was dark with stress and her eyes were nothing like Jehan blue, but they had never looked more alike.

Jehan wavered before squeezing her into a tight bear hug. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry you worried,” he said softly. He knew just how much she clung to him; he was the only thing she had left.

“How was the game?” she asked weakly.

“I don’t know what happened,” he admitted, pulling back. “I heard that, uh, one of my friends... before the game, they read...” He bit his lip, but the tears spilled over anyway, the salt just stinging the wound.

She was silent for a moment before her features fell in recognition. “Oh, honey...” she whispered, using her hankerchief to wipe his cheek. “I didn’t know you had anyone who...”

“Look, Mother, this needs to end.” Jehan clenched his jaw, knuckles white around the railing. “This whole war, every war, it tears families apart. It took Dad, and now Courfeyrac is gone, and this whole thing is just UNFAIR!”

“Jean, please, calm down.” Her brows were furrowed in confusion. “Come on, let’s go to bed. Everything will look better in the morning, dear.”

“No, Mother, no it won’t.” Jehan was angry now. “I met another boy, we’re going to D.C. We’re going to help end this. I leave tomorrow.”

“Like hell you are. You’re barely sixteen! You think you’re just going to drop out of school and run off with this... this /hooligan/ you just met and protest with all those hippies and homosexuals?” She looked genuinely afraid, despite her words, that she’d lose him too.

“I’ll call,” Jehan sighed, turning away from her and walking up the stairs to pack his things.

“I... You never called me ‘mother’ before,” she called up to him, utterly devastated.

“I’m not a child anymore,” he growled, pulling out his school backpack and shoving it full of mismatched clothes and envelope after envelope of Courf’s old letters from the lining of his pillowcase. “This is my decision, and I just want to stop people from hurting like you did.” He ran down the stairs, stopping to kiss her cheek. “I know you’d understand.”

Mrs. Prouvaire watched from the front window as her only son and only family ran down the lawn with nothing but an old backpack filled with clothes, jumping in a beat-up car with a man he met just hours before to try and save the world from the National Mall.

So quiet, soft enough that she could barely hear it herself, she whispered, “Your father would be proud.”

Enjolras welcomed Jehan into the old, green Caddy that used to be his and Grantaire’s with a nod and a pat on the shoulder, “Welcome aboard. We can change the world.”

* * *

_The sunlight is hitting him perfectly from his perch on the steps of the museum. They’d taken a train up to New York, a weekend getaway amongst the more accepting crowd. Grantaire is sketching him as he chats with one of the other patrons about the injustices in Post-WWI Germany and they’ve somehow slipped into why it caused the violence of Nazi-Occupied France. Enjolras’ eyes are filled with light and passion as the conversation turns to the current war and wonderings as to the worth of the fight. Grantaire had just finished the sketch when Enjolras’ discussion companion waked frustratedly away. He turns to Taire, leaning upon one elbow, smile brightened in his face with small unfaded passion._

_"Sketching? Can I see?" He reached for the book and snatched it before Grantaire protest, his heart stopped and he smiled even brighter, "It's beautiful Taire." Enjolras checked around them and gave his hand a light squeeze. Grantaire smiled back at him._

_"Well my muse is always beautiful." He thumbed Enjolras' cheek. "What shall we do today?"_

_"I thought maybe just enjoy each other's company." Enjolras nodded, "We have the weekend."_

_"We have the weekend."_

_Later they sat a dinner and Enjolras' expression turned sad._

_"What is it my love?" Grantaire asked softly._

_"I was thinking about my conversation today at the museum," Enjolras looked down, "When you were in the bathroom at lunch....they announced that the draft system is going to be put in place. I was thinking about....what would happen if one of us were to be...." Grantaire cut him off._

_"Don't think. It doesn’t do us any good to think on that.” Grantaire reached forward and grabbed his hands, “We’ll be fine. We’ll always be fine. I promise you, Apollo, always.”_

_Enjolras nodded and squeezed his hands, “And I promise you, R, always. I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

Enjolras shot awake, tears in his eyes. He stood, shaking, it had been a week, one week since Marius had reported the boys missing and Enjolras was falling apart. He pulled on a shirt and walked to the roof. He’d been coming here since the night Grantaire shipped off, it was his getaway. Enjolras had also taken to smoking Grantaire’s brand of cigarettes. Smoking was never really his thing, but he needed one more thing to remind him of R. They were broken apart in one instant and it still killed him. He remembers that dinner so often and their conversation in bed that night.

_“Let’s just run. We won’t even have to worry about the draft. Let’s go to Paris and live our lives there.” Enjolras sighed, looking up at the ceiling. R squeezed his hand._

_“What about the people?”_

_“We’re the people too. We deserve our right to run.”_

_“I know you care about us my dear, but we are not the only people.” Enjolras furrowed his brow and turned to him._

_“It seems to me we’ve made quite the impact on each other.” Grantaire smiled and nodded._

_“We have, dear Apollo.” He kissed him softly, “When this war is over I shall take you to Paris and you may help the people there.”_

All Enjolras has been able to think is that they’re never going to get Paris now, that R is dead like Courf, that he’ll never see him again. It forces tears, and leaning against walls, and thoughts of jumping off that roof. But it also instills anger, deep, passionate anger that made Enjolras scream and scream for someone to hear them, for someone to understand that they were losing the people they loved in a pointless war. Deep within him, Enjolras knew no one would listen, but D.C. needed to hear. Someone needed to pay for what they had lost.

 

 


	3. Wake Me Up When September Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “here comes the rain again  
> falling from the stars  
> drenched in my pain again  
> becoming who we are  
> as my memory rests  
> but never forgets what I lost  
> wake me up when September ends  
> Summer has come and passed  
> The innocent can never last  
> wake me up when September ends”  
> \- Green Day, Wake Me Up When September Ends  
> D.C. arrives and Enjolras is tired. Jehan is learning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so sorry it's been such a long time since we updated. Life simply got in the way, but here we have the next chapter. Serious apologies to you all.

“My stuff is at the cafe,” Enjolras said quite suddenly after ten minutes of sitting in silence. In the passenger seat, Jehan was startled out of his melancholy.

“The cafe?” he mumbled, still half-asleep from his exhausting sobbing earlier that night (or was it morning? The time seemed to blend together under the harsh orange glow of the streetlights.)

“The Cafe Musain, it’s just downtown,” Enjolras explained, glancing away from the empty road momentarily to make sure Jehan was still conscious. “We’ve been meeting there for years, but a few of us have been living in the upstairs storage room since everyone, uh...”

Jehan nodded quickly in recognition; neither of them particularly wanted to finish that sentence.  “I’ve walked by it before, yes,” he mumbled, becoming increasingly absorbed by his giant Washington Redskins sweater. It had been his father’s or so he thought; the smell inside the collar was unfamiliar, and he had found it in a drawer he had never seen his mother open. He kept it for the memory, not necessarily the theme; huddled in its warmth he could almost imagine his father’s soft voice as if it came in a dream.

Enjolras made no comment, turning his eyes back to the road with his mouth set in a hard line, eyes smoldering softly beneath his golden unruly curls. “We’re regrouping there until Marius can escape from his grandfather’s,” he elaborated, voice strained, “and then we leave for DC.”

Jehan nodded absently, picking at a loose string. “Sure,” he shrugged, indifferent to the matter and really just wanting somewhere warm to curl up for the rest of the night.

The car eased to a stop outside a small, dilapidated building almost out of reach of the flickering streetlamps.

“Welcome home,” Enjolras announced grandly, spreading his arms and stepping out of the car. Jehan, expecting a sneer and a sarcastic introduction, was somewhat startled by the pervasive sincerity.

A young woman opened the door, glancing around and motioning for the two to come inside. "Took you long enough," she teased, only half-kidding, and punched Enjolras on the arm. "Who's your friend?"

"Musichetta, meet Jean Prouvaire," Enjolras announced, stepping aside with a grim sort of smile.

* * *

By the time they make it to D.C. Enjolras has this permanent grimace on his face that looks like he could murder the next person that comes to speak to him. Eponine notices, Cosette notices, Musichetta notices, Marius notices, even Jehan notices. But not a single one of them will say a thing. Enjolras is and will always be their fearless leader except something’s missing. Something that’s been the fuel to his passionate fire for four years. There’s a new fuel, an anger, deep seated and boiling. He’s there, he’s leading, he’s protesting, but he’s not their Enjolras anymore.

It’s been two weeks since Marius returned and he’s cracking up. They can all see it. His voice is hoarse from screaming at the world on the National Mall, his arms sore from pamphlets and signs, his eyes tired from sleepless nights rereading that last letter.

He’s there for Jehan, of course, they understand each other. Only that’s starting to break him down too. It’s not fucking fair that they should lose loves and friends and so much more. Enjolras is screaming and fighting and no one’s listening. It’s killing him.

He doesn’t have Grantaire, doesn’t have his R, doesn’t have the person that reminds him to stay human, doesn’t have love, doesn’t have passion. He has anger.

No one is surprised when the anger turns to fighting.

“What have you lost anyway?!” Someone’s screaming at him, a blur, but someone. He vaguely remembers the male speaking about losing his girlfriend when the enemy attacked a medical tent. Enjolras is haggard and completely done with people doing this, pretending he hasn’t lost shit.

He whips around immediately and screams back, “I lost one of my best friends and the others are still over there!” The pretty boy scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“I lost the girl I was going to marry. You haven’t lost love.”

Enjolras stills for a moment, blinking, his eyes turning to pure fire, “Don’t you fucking dare. I have lost love. One of my friends lost the love of his goddamn life and mine is missing. And the worst part is that everyone’s too bigoted that we have to hide that we lost them. Because I’ve lost him and I can’t even say I did.” He’s caught in the flurry of the moment and all he can hear is insult after insult as pain racks his body. The next thing he sees is R, his soft black curls falling over his face twisted in worry, “I love you, Apollo, always have, always will. Don’t leave me.” Then a deep, all consuming darkness that Enjolras welcomes.

 


End file.
